Red Winter

44

‘There’s something there,’ Anna said.

‘I see it.’

It was difficult to make it out. Maybe five hundred metres away, it blended well against the dark tangle of hedgerow behind it, and the sun was in my eyes, the colour dazzling. The smoke, too, was drifting about us now; the breeze was breaking it up as it came through the trees, catching the dark clouds in places, scattering the snake in swirls and twists.

Four hundred metres.

I put a hand to my brow and squinted to see the shape move, split, become more than one.

‘Riders,’ I said.

They had been moving in a column but had now separated, moving out in a line across the field.

Kashtan shifted, moving sideways.

‘I know,’ I whispered, and patted her neck.

‘Should we run?’ Anna asked.

‘There’s nowhere for us to go. We can’t outrun them. We can’t go back to the izba. We’ll have to meet them; see what they want.’

‘Are they the ones who were following us?’

The smoke thinned, the grey and black mass weakening. I didn’t dare take my eyes off the shapes as they moved towards us across the field.

Three hundred metres.

‘I think they might be. How many do you count, Anna?’

‘Seven.’ She controlled her horse well, keeping beside me.

Two hundred metres.

‘It’s all right, Anna. We’re going to be fine.’ I pulled the revolver from my pocket and held it resting along my right thigh.

One hundred metres.

The pounding of hooves on hard ground joined the cracking and popping of burning wood behind us.

‘Stay calm,’ I told Kashtan, and I forced my fear deep, pushing it away for all of us. If I was confident, Kashtan and Anna would be too.

The riders were easier to make out now. The smoke still drifted, the sparks still danced, but now the men were men rather than just shapes in the distance.

The rider in the centre raised a hand and the line of riders came to a halt just twenty metres from our position. Each of them was holding a rifle pointed forward, and as soon as they were still, they released the reins of their mounts and steadied their weapons with both hands.

The air was quiet but for the crackle of the fire and the breathing of the horses. They had ridden hard across the field and their hot breath came heavy, drifting from flaring nostrils like the smoke that swirled about them.

The rider who had raised his hand nudged his horse forward. He was a lean man, tall enough to look strange in the saddle, as if his horse were too small. He was gaunt, with yellowish waxy skin over drawn features, and his eyes stared in a permanent bulge from their sockets. He wore a thick, dark winter coat over his Chekist uniform, and on his head was a fox-fur hat. The breeze rippled in the soft fur, blowing through the dark hairs to the white below. His rifle remained on his back, but in his hand he held a pistol. At his waist, he wore a sword. If ever a man had been born into the image of Koschei the Deathless, it was this one.

Krukov.

He brought his horse forward so its nose was alongside Kashtan’s, and when he stopped, he spoke to me without expression. ‘Commander Levitsky. You’re a hard man to follow.’

‘I tried.’

‘What happened to your face?’

‘It’s a long story.’

He looked me up and down. ‘For some of the men, it was easier to believe you were dead. They didn’t want to believe you were a deserter, but I never doubted that you were still alive.’

‘How did you know?’

‘You forget I’ve known you a long time. It was me who cut the bullet from your wound.’ He touched a finger to the soft part of his stomach, just below his ribs. ‘The bodies we found might have had your papers and uniforms, but they didn’t fool me for a second.’

‘And you’ve been following me all this time?’

Krukov looked at Anna for the first time. He showed no emotion, but studied her as if she were a curiosity. He nodded. ‘All this time.’

Anna stared at him, showing no hint of backing down. When faced with the kind of hardship she had endured, there comes a point for every person at which they must make a choice: to give up or to dig in. Anna had chosen to dig in.

‘To what end?’ I asked. ‘What happens now?’

He stroked his beard with a gloved hand but said nothing as he watched her.

‘Koschei is dead,’ I told him.

He was not surprised. ‘On the fire?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the others?’ He turned back to me, his expression still devoid of emotion. Krukov was a proud and principled man, and I had seldom seen him let down his guard. He never gave anything away that he didn’t want to. ‘Dead too?’

‘Yes.’

‘They were not good men.’

‘You’re in charge of this unit now, Commander Krukov. That’s how it should be.’

‘No. It should be you.’ He fixed his eyes on mine.

‘It’s not how I thought it was. I’ve seen things that change it all. We’re not saving our country; we’re killing her. Men like Ryzhkov are killing her. Do you know the things he’s done?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you didn’t try to stop him?’

‘I thought about it, but then I was following you.’

‘On his orders?’

‘We had both lost our commanders; he was the senior soldier. I never wanted to take orders from him.’

‘But you had to.’ I had heard that sentiment before. Commander Orlov had been the same. He followed orders because it was his duty to follow them and because there were consequences for men who did not. ‘And he wanted you to come after me.’

‘Yes, and I wanted to come. Some of the men too. We talked; they volunteered.’

‘What about Ryzhkov’s comrades? Any of them come with you?’

‘Two of them. They aren’t good men either.’

Only two of them were with Krukov. Including the four who had been at the farm, that gave him only six men from his original unit, but there had been more when we merged. The rest must have been with the prisoners, taking them to a holding camp. At least Ryzhkov had only been half lying about that. I wondered if they were due to return at any time soon.

‘You know what happens to deserters,’ Krukov said.

‘I know.’

‘It would have been easier if you had died.’

‘I am dead. At least, I can be. If you would let me be.’ Deserters could be hunted. Dead men could only be mourned and forgotten.

Krukov blinked hard and tightened his mouth further.

‘My family was taken from a village called Belev. If you’ve been following me, you will have seen it.’

‘There have been so many villages.’

‘My wife and sons were there. Ryzhkov took them.’

‘Where is Alek?’

‘Dead.’

‘And Ryzhkov took your wife and sons?’ Krukov looked me up and down once more, then nudged his horse even closer. ‘Are they alive?’

‘I think so. I hope so.’ I gripped the revolver harder, my finger tightening on the trigger.

‘I’m sorry, Commander.’

‘It’s just Nikolai now. Kolya.’

Krukov backed away, keeping his eyes on me, then he turned his horse and rode to the other men. He spoke for some time with the two men in the centre of the line, while the others maintained their positions facing us.

When he had finished his conversation, Krukov rode along the line, going to one of the men at the end and speaking briefly before the man passed something to him. Krukov set the object on the saddle in front of him, then turned his horse in our direction.

As he returned, the two riders from the centre of the line broke away and followed, coming either side as he reached us. They were the two men he had spoken to at length, men whose faces were in shadow beneath hats, but as they came closer, I wondered if I had seen them before. Something about them was familiar.

Both men wore a winter coat, and each of them had a leather cap pulled low on his brow. The front of each cap bore the red star. The same image I had seen branded into my children’s eyes in my nightmares.

The older of the two men had a weather-beaten face, and a look of boredom about him, the way he slouched in the saddle. A scar ran from his left eye and disappeared at his cheekbone, where it was covered by a beard that had been allowed to grow wild. The other was clean-shaven and thick-featured with a firm, square jaw. He was a good-looking man, the kind whose representation wouldn’t look out of place on a propaganda poster.

It was the bearded one who spoke first as he caught up with Krukov, saying, ‘What’s going on, Commander? Why did you want to know about—’ As soon as he saw the revolver in my hand, he raised his rifle and pointed it at me. ‘Drop your weapon.’

Krukov was sitting still in the saddle, one hand on the reins, the other holding his pistol, resting on the item he had brought: a large bag, shaped like a sack but made from stout green canvas, tied with a piece of frayed cord.

‘Drop it now,’ said the scarred man.

‘Who are you?’ I asked him. ‘You’re not in charge.’

‘This is Stepan Ivanovich,’ said Krukov, tilting his head to the man at his left, ‘and my other comrade is Artem Andreyovich.’

‘Ryzhkov’s men?’ I asked. That’s why I had recognised them.

‘We are all of the same unit,’ Krukov replied. ‘These men volunteered to join the search for you.’ When he said the word ‘volunteered’, there was a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Krukov was not an emotional man – he gave little away in his expressions and intonation– but I had known him long enough to understand that he didn’t like Stepan Ivanovich and Artem Andreyovich. Krukov would have preferred to lead just the men he knew. Like me, he would have felt uneasy having strangers at his side, especially ones who were loyal to a man like Ryzhkov. Krukov would see them as spies in his ranks. He would not have liked having them in his unit.

‘Why didn’t you take his weapon?’ Stepan asked Krukov. ‘And where’s Koschei?’

‘Ryzhkov’s not here,’ Krukov said.

‘He’s gone ahead to the camp, you mean? That’s where he is?’ Stepan’s words made me look to Krukov.

‘Exactly. He’s taken the prisoners to the holding camp.’ Krukov spoke slowly and with emphasis.

‘So what are we waiting for?’ Stepan Ivanovich snapped the rifle tighter to his shoulder and glanced sideways at Krukov.

Neither Krukov nor I spoke.

‘You want me to get a rope,’ asked Artem Andreyovich, ‘or you want to shoot him?’

‘Wait.’ Krukov raised his left hand and made a circling motion in the air. Immediately the other riders came forward.

For a moment the approaching men were silhouettes against the sun. They moved well in the saddle as they crossed the blood frost, and like the others, I saw their faces only when they were almost upon us. They were four faces I recognised: Bukharin, Manarov, Repnin and Nevsky. Four men who had served with me for many years. Four men whom I had loved like brothers but now thought me a traitor and were bound to execute me for treason.

When they were almost upon us, they split, riding in pairs to either end of the line and moving inwards to form a semicircle round Anna and me. We were hemmed in now. No escape.

‘We have a choice to make,’ Krukov said. His voice was hoarse, as if he needed to clear it.

‘You mean bullet or rope?’ Artem Andreyovich smiled at the prospect.

‘We should wait for Koschei,’ said Stepan. ‘Or take him to the camp. He’ll want his head.’

Now Krukov took his eyes off me. He shifted in the saddle and turned first to look left along the line, then right along the line. When he faced forwards once more, he took a deep breath. ‘Koschei is dead.’

‘What?’ There was a flash of confusion in Stepan’s eyes, followed by a glint of understanding, but before he could react, Krukov raised his pistol to point directly at his chest.

As soon as he did it, the two men at either end of the line turned their weapons on Stepan and Artem.

‘What is this?’ Stepan demanded. ‘What the hell is going on?’

‘I don’t trust you men,’ Krukov said. ‘I never did. You are no longer needed in this unit.’

‘You can’t do this.’

‘Who’s going to stop me?’

Stepan tore his eyes from Krukov and looked at me along the barrel of his rifle. ‘I could kill him now. I’d be a hero.’

‘No, you’d just be a dead man,’ Krukov said. ‘Or you could ride away. Right now.’

‘And you’d just let us go?’ Artem asked.

Krukov thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I wouldn’t.’ And he shot Stepan through the heart.